


For Your Records

by destielpasta, mtothedestiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Artist Castiel, Canon Compliant, Coda, Episode: s09e03 I'm No Angel, Episode: s09e06 Heaven Can't Wait, Episode: s09e09 Holy Terror, Episode: s09e10 Road Trip, First Kiss, M/M, POV Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:45:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/pseuds/destielpasta, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtothedestiel/pseuds/mtothedestiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything is the same except Castiel carries around a sketchbook for the first half of season 9.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Found

**Author's Note:**

> This was a real treat to work on, especially working with the radiant mtothedestiel, who provided Cas's sketches. Kudos also to Cass for being a wonderful Beta, as always. I hope you enjoy this, as I have always seen Cas as being a possible artist, and this allowed me to play around with that a lot.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after the events of 9.03, I'm no Angel.

[](http://s160.photobucket.com/user/leannag5/media/1_zps8359f011.jpg.html)

 

Castiel knows that it’s garbage. The cover is bent and slightly warped from humidity. One sheet of paper still clings to the spiral binding, the rest loose and sticking out in all directions, and the cover indicates that it was originally meant for watercolor paintings. He stuffs it in his bag anyway.

 

Around here, the Church people help him. Their message is generic, “Love God and treat others as you would like to be treated,” but at least their delivery is non-militant. He sits in the back, waiting for the free doughnuts that sometimes follow the service. Their eyes follow him, but when he meets them they smile. 

 

The pews provide pencils for filling out donation envelopes; small pencils with dull tips that look as if they were sawed in half. It will have to do. 

 

He starts his drawing from the side. A curve of a cheek, the outline of an eye. The lines are messy, and the pencil doesn’t even have an eraser. He can’t say that he really cares. The Preacher drones on about rooting the sin out of their lives, but Castiel draws his with swoops and smears that lead to form one eye, swollen shut and clogged with blood. The other is shining and looks up at him to plead _no stop please._

 

This is the Dean he sees when he closes his eyes at night, involuntarily prostrated before him, the shadow of Castiel’s looming body covering his bruised and bloody face. He fails to protect him; his own hands, grasping an angel blade, throwing the punches every time. Sometimes they are in the crypt, and he feels Dean’s bones break under his fist. Sometimes Castiel watches his own powered-up self beat upon Dean’s limp form. He deserves to see it. 

 

It ends the same way each time. _I need you._ Weighted down with blood and tears, Dean still needed him, but not anymore. _You can’t stay._

 

“Sir?”

 

Castiel looks up, draping his hands over the sketchpad to cover his work. An older woman sits down beside him, setting her purse between them. “Your name’s Steve, right?”

 

“Yes,” Castiel answers, slowly flipping the cover closed.

 

She smiled. “I’m Myra, the Church secretary. It’s always good to see new faces on Sunday.”

 

Castiel nods, used to the usual spiel by now. Treat the homeless man as if he’s a real person before telling him that it’s time for him to go. 

 

“Anyway,” she continued, “I was wondering if you could help me out? My friend Nora, she’s a sweet lady, and she owns the convenience store down the street. She’s looking for good, reliable help, and I was wondering if you were looking to make some extra cash?”

 

“I don’t have any cash.” He knows she’s only trying to be nice, but he despises the veiled intention behind her words.

 

“I see,” she answers, shifting in the pew, “Well if you’re interested, I could set up an interview with her. We could take a walk down there after we get something to eat.”

 

Castiel nods and slips the sketchpad back into his bag, hoping Myra doesn’t notice that he takes the pencil in the process. The drawing is mostly finished anyway; he could spend the rest of his life trying to get the hurt in Dean’s eyes right.


	2. Seen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place between the night and the day during 9.06, Heaven Can't Wait.

[](http://s160.photobucket.com/user/leannag5/media/2_zpsdb34bb3f.jpg.html)

The night is young.

 

Castiel heard that phrase many times since becoming human. During beer commercials and shiny sitcoms. From men reentering bars from the street and tired co-workers making their way home.

 

He repeats it to himself as he sits on the hotel bed, left hand bound in gauze, trying to keep his eyes open and focused on his work. He uses the only sheet of paper still bound to the sketchbook, but he thinks the subject matter is worth it tonight.

 

Dean stretches out on the bed next to his, face down with his arms wrapped around the pillow. The radiator indiscriminately pours out heat from its clanging iron interior, making the room almost unbearably hot. It even caused Dean to shed his shirt before climbing on top of the covers. Castiel doesn’t pretend to be disappointed.

 

The other man is asleep now, and the scratch from Castiel’s pencil is jarringly loud. He knows that he should feel shame for sketching Dean without his permission. He ignores it. His strokes are smaller this time, the lines closer together. Shadows from the outside and the flickering television criss-cross over the slope of Dean’s shoulders and the dip of his lower back where the tension in his belly relaxes in sleep. This time Cas can get the eyes right, without the bruises and swelling that haunt his dreams. 

 

He knows he won’t see Dean Winchester for a while. He wonders why he even sees him now. The angel is dead, the problem of the week solved. His wrist is wrapped with a fine splint and they could have just went their separate ways, except for the fact that Dean shrugged. _I’ve already got the room. Might as well get some sleep._

 

“Cas?”

 

Castiel looks up from his work. Dean rises up onto his elbows, his eyes squinting at the dim light of the room. “Wha— What’re doin’?” 

 

“Drawing you,” Castiel answers, looking back down, ignoring the way heat involuntarily flushes the back of his neck.

 

Dean is still half asleep. “Why would you do that?”

 

Castiel shrugs. “I’ll most likely be alone again tomorrow night.”

 

Dean nods, dropping his head back on the pillow. His breathing evens out again, and his shoulders relax back into the pillow. 

 

Castiel adjusts the lines so that Dean is looking at him in his drawing. His eyes are tired and his forehead is dark with confusion, but his mouth is soft, casting a small shadow over his chin. Something rushes through Castiel’s blood, something warm and fluid. He tries to sigh it away. It doesn’t matter now. Can’t matter.

 

Dean is solid. Castiel tries to capture the way he makes an imprint in the bed; the way he utterly settles there. Tonight he will look his fill. The night is young. 


	3. Forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place before the events of 9.09, Holy Terror.

[](http://s160.photobucket.com/user/leannag5/media/3_zpscf02a8a6.jpg.html)

He begins to struggle. A mere twenty fours hours is not enough. His human memory fails him, and he wastes two sheets of paper trying. 

 

Dean’s lips are too thin. His eyebrows end up too small. Castiel tries to remedy it with shading, but the lines are too dark. He draws from memory, and each mental image begins to fold in on itself as soon as he pins it down.

 

The bus hits a bump, causing him to draw a rather harsh line outlining the nose. In a way, it works. He pockets the pencil in his new suit jacket, the polyester scraping against his dry skin. Drawing used to relax him, now it set him on edge. 

 

He busies himself with looking around the bus. A young woman sits next to him, a book spread over her lap. He tries to focus in on the words she reads, something about a mystery killer, a queen, and a trickster of some kind. She reads quickly and turns the page before he has a chance to finish. Then her hand is placing a worn leather bookmark between the pages and he looks up to see her staring down at him, brown eyes curious.

 

He hadn’t realized how tall she was. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—“

 

She cuts him off with a laugh like bells. “It’s okay. I was spying on you too.” She reaches over and taps the corner of his sketchpad while pulling the earbuds from her ears.

 

“Oh. I don’t mind.” His voice sounds like a croak from underuse. “It’s… unfinished.”

 

“I like it so far. Is it someone you know?” 

 

“Yes. Sometimes.”

 

She laughs softly again. “I know what you mean.”

 

Castiel likes the way she tips her head back to laugh.  The sunlight shines off of strands of gold woven in with her braids. “Where are you headed?” she asks.

 

“Wyoming,” he says, letting the cover fall shut on Dean’s unfinished portrait.

 

She nods. “Is he gonna be there?” She asks, gesturing at the sketchbook.

 

It’s his turn to laugh. “No.” He shakes his head. “We’ve… parted ways for now.”

 

She shrugs, cracking open her book again. “Well, in my experience, no one draws portraits of someone they’re not gonna see again. Makes sense right?”

 

Cas smiles, feeling a rush of affection for the stranger. She replaces her earbuds and continues reading, and Castiel peers back at his most recent portrait. The shading is definitely too dark around Dean’s mouth, almost to the point of giving him unnecessary facial hair. He hadn’t bothered with any sort of facial construction, making Dean miss a chin. His hair and ear remain completely unfinished. 

 

The eyes work, however. They look to the side, as if he has seen something funny and wants Castiel to look that way too. In his memory he hears a low chuckle and feels an elbow poke at his ribs because he has said something awkward while interrogating a witness. He runs his hands over the rough pencil lines. The smudges left behind match the exhaustion the hunter usually exudes.

 

He’ll keep this one. For the eyes.


	4. Felt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after the events of 9.11, First Born.

[](http://s160.photobucket.com/user/leannag5/media/31_zpse7eaa391.jpg.html)

Sam has gone to sleep, his newly healed body still worn-out from the extraction of Gadreel’s grace and Castiel’s ministrations. Castiel has a bedroom too, a spare room with a bed, two pillows, and a closet. “I know you don’t sleep, anymore,” Sam had said, “But if you just wanna relax, it’s yours.”

 

Castiel grabs the sketchbook from the table, heading down the hallways towards his room. He can’t help but notice that it’s right next to Dean’s room, the door shut tight the moment they had gotten back to the bunker. Castiel runs his fingertips over the smooth wood and finds his hand turning the doorknob without another thought.

 

Dean’s room is dark. The dim ceiling light only serves to cast more shadows.He counts the same simple structure as every other bedroom in the bunker: bed, chest of drawers, a closet, a night table, but with several differences. A few guns and knives line the walls, arranged purposefully. There is a stack of cardboard covered vinyl records on the dresser, upstaged by a small photograph of a young Mary Winchester.

 

Castiel opens the sketchbook, flipping to the last blank page. Only three drawings remain, the rest lost or water-damaged or too smudged to save. He feels a strange solidarity for them, as if they were lost friends. Lost family.

 

The pencil is in his hand before his mind has a chance to catch up. Dark lines, darker than he has ever used, criss-cross over the page. Then there are two faces. Castiel can only draw from imagination this time; his face has never been so close to Dean’s. Outside of dreams, their lips have never touched, but he treasures those dreams. He eternalizes them in lines and strokes and smudges and it’s dark, so dark. He imagines them in this bedroom, knees touching and noses bumping together while they share breath. The hair remains blank, an abstract outline, concerning himself only with the places their faces touch. 

 

It’s a chaste kiss. No heat, no desperation. Castiel draws a kiss that could be casual. Just a peck, or a two-second press of lips. A human kiss. A smile pulls at the corners of their mouths, just a ghost of contentment.

 

He lays the pencil down on the bed, using his fingers to smudge any harsh lines. Light and shadow move across their faces.

 

Castiel feels the hum before he hears it. Something old, something powerful. It vibrates through his bones until it rings out like a bell, along with thudding footsteps. A floorboard creaks, and he looks up from his work, expecting to see Sam in the doorframe. Dean stands there instead, mud caked to his boots and rain peppering his coat. 

 

“Hey, Cas, “ he says, running a hand over his damp hair.

 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says quickly over the noise. Dean’s eyes flick downwards, and he flips the sketchbook closed, the ghost of human embarrassment warming his face.

 

Dean shrugs, walking into the room and shrugging off his coat and duffel bag. He leaves them in a heap by the door. “S’nothing.”

 

“You’re back,” Castiel offers, praying that it doesn’t have to be a question.

 

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up and down quickly as he concerns himself with untying his boots. “Guess so. For now,” he mumbles before straightening and looking at Castiel still seated on the bed. “Didn’t know you’d taken up drawing.”

 

Castiel places a protective hand over the cover. “Just to pass the time. Sam rests most of the time.”

 

“How is he?”

 

“Healed,” Castiel reassures him, “We finished the last of it just a few hours ago.”

 

Dean nods and sits down next to him. “That’s good. Good to hear.”

 

“Yes. I’m relieved as well.”

 

Dean goes to unbutton the cuffs of his damp flannel, but then changes his mind. The humming is still there, in the back of Castiel’s mind, itching at his grace. 

 

“Thanks for that, man,” Dean says, looking up and meeting Castiel’s eyes. “For staying with him.”

 

Castiel shrugs, palms facing the ceiling. “You and Sam are all I have. Of course I’m going to take care of you.”

 

Dean follows the pattern of his hands with his eyes. He chuckles to himself.

 

“What’s so funny?” Castiel asks, smiling even from hearing Dean’s sparse laughter. 

 

“Nothing, really. You just picked up some human habits is all,” he says, demonstrating how Cas had just moved his shoulders and hands. 

 

“Well, I am affected by my experience as a human,” Castiel explains, “I hope it stays with me.”

 

Dean nods, looking back down at his own hands. Absentmindedly, he scratches at the inside of his left arm, still covered with flannel, and the hum becomes a shaky vibration. Castiel closes his eyes and rubs at his temples. 

 

“Dean,” he says, the thrumming intensifying, “What did you do?”

 

Dean pulls at the fabric again, buttoning and unbuttoning the cuffs a few times. “Cas, listen—”

 

Castiel grabs for Dean’s wrist instead, pushing up the fabric of his shirt to reveal a swollen, red mark, arranged into a crude design.

 

“Dean.”

 

“It’s not as bad as it looks—“

 

“You allowed yourself to be branded with the mark of Cain?” His own voice comes out broken and thinner than normal. 

 

“Well it’s not like I thought it would be fun,” Dean pulls his arm away, his sleeve hanging limp as his head drops into his hands. “I’m gonna get the first blade and kill Abaddon. Simple.”

 

“You met with Cain?”

 

“Yup. Guy’s pretty charming once you get past all the Father of Murder propaganda.” 

 

Castiel ignores Dean’s smirk and continues. “Did he tell you of all the repercussions? Do you know what could happen to you?”

 

“Nope,” he replies shortly, “Don’t wanna know. Don’t even care, come to think of it.”

 

The hum of mark is usurped only by the anger growing in Castiel’s stomach. “You don’t care,” he repeats, standing up redistribute the tension coursing through his legs.

 

“I’m gonna end this, and then I’m probably gonna die, Cas. It doesn’t bother me anymore,” Dean says behind him.

 

Castiel laughs, the taste of it bitter in his mouth. “You won’t die.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Castiel turns around, seeing his own anger reflected in the flicker of Dean’s eyes. “You won’t die,” he says again, “You’ll live forever. You’ll wander the earth alone after the death of humanity, after the angels die, after the monsters are gone. You’ll be Cursed.”

  
“Already cursed,” he says simply, looking down at his lap.

 

Castiel's hands itch. He wants Dean to look at him, but when his hands close around Dean’s face, he finds that he can only be gentle. He tilts Dean’s head back and their eyes meet. Dean’s skin is heated from the power of the mark, near burning against Castiel’s hands. 

 

It only takes one tug, and Dean stands up, crowding into Castiel’s space and allowing himself to be pulled in, their lips meeting in the middle. It’s only one kiss, just a meeting of lips. Dean pulls back and looks at him, chest heaving as if he just finished a marathon. Castiel still clutches at his face. Slowly, Dean reaches up, covering Castiel’s hand with his own, leaning into the touch as his eyes fall closed.

 

“Dean,” Castiel whispers, his thumb stroking at the overgrown stubble covering his friend’s face.

 

“Cursed anyway, Cas,” he says again, “Doesn’t fucking matter anymore.”

 

Castiel feels a surging pain in his abdomen at the words, and lets his hand slide further back to grasp at the hair on the back of Dean’s neck to pull their faces together again. Dean kisses like a man on fire. Castiel gasps into his mouth, and Dean takes advantage, deepening the kiss with a new edge and scratchy skin. His hands are everywhere, dipping underneath his coat and pulling down the collar of his shirt to expose more skin to his wandering mouth. 

 

Castiel pushes and Dean falls back onto the bed, pulling back until Castiel falls on top of him. He moans when their hips meet, quickly moving his hands to grab at more skin under Castiel’s shirt. Dean’s breath fills him, surges through his blood along with the hum of the mark. His hair is damp and smells like winter, like a shivering cold heat. 

 

“Saw what you were drawing,” Dean says into their open mouths, dark laughter in his words as he moves to lick at Castiel’s neck.

 

Castiel ignores him, moving instead to straddle Dean’s hips and unbutton his shirt. As soon as the mark of Cain is exposed, they both still. Castiel runs a gentle finger along its outline.

 

Dean hisses at the contact. “Still stings a little.”

 

Castiel takes his hand instead, examining the lines of his palm before lacing their fingers together. 

 

“Talk about bad timing…” Dean sighs.

 

“Let’s not,” Castiel says before he realizes that Dean didn’t ask a question.

 

A draft enters the room, making them both shiver. Dean’s head flops back onto the bed, resting where Castiel had tossed his shirt. Castiel maneuvers himself off of Dean and back into a sitting position next to his discarded sketchbook. Dean sits up next to him, reaching across his lap for it before Castiel can snatch it away. He doesn’t really mind though.

 

Dean flips to the first page, eyes running over the drawing of him from crypt, eyes puffy and bruised. “I see someone else doesn’t know how to let go of the past,” he says, his mouth quirking into a smirk. “Guess we never really did talk about it.”

 

“We didn’t.”

 

Dean closes the book without looking further. “You’re pretty good. Regular old Van Gogh.”

 

Castiel shrugs, feeling a weight settle onto his chest. “You took on the Mark of Cain.”

 

“Thought we had already been through this.”

 

Castiel rolls his eyes, tossing Dean his shirt. “It’s cold in here.” He gets up to leave, snatching the sketchbook off of Dean’s lap.

 

“Cas.”

 

He stops at the door, waiting.

 

“Thanks for taking care of Sam.”

 

Castiel nods, knowing that the words spoken were wrong and out of place. A worthy and truthful placeholder. He hears the sound of fabric rustling as Dean thrusts his arms through the sleeves.

 

“And,” he starts, again, “If I’m gonna walk the Earth forever, at least you’ll be around for a little while, right?”

 

Castiel grips the sketchbook harder, the paper bending under his fingers. “Of course I will, Dean.”

 

He leaves him then, letting the door swing shut with a click. Somewhere far off a clock ticks. Castiel tucks the sketchbook under his arm, it’s weight heavier than before. 

 


End file.
